


I Now Pronounce You Holmes And Watson

by kikabennet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gay Rights, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Richieverse, Sherlock Holmes 2009 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikabennet/pseuds/kikabennet
Summary: In a private little community, violent murders are taking place. Watson and Holmes decide to investigate the crimes undercover, but they didn't know they'd have to go undercover in a gay community pretending they love each other!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh geez. An old story during my Sherlock Holmes obsession (what a great obsession that was) and the time of Livejournal being the place to tag your fics. Although Cleveland Street is a real historical gay place, I do not write appropriately when it comes to the late 1800s. It's just not in me, so you'll either enjoy this story and be able to ignore it, or hate me and wish I was dead because I didn't try harder to make it more accurate. I hope you enjoy it. Some of you might even remember it from LJ or FF.net

"Blunt head trauma, rope burns around the wrists and ankles, bruises on the torso..." Watson examined the body carefully, Holmes and Lestrad peering over his shoulder. 

"Fractured ribs..." He pulled himself back. "Obvious signs of torture."

"He's not the first," Clarky said, a few feet behind them. "We've found three more, all dumped at the outskirts of the Cleveland district."

Holmes and Watson exchanged glances.

The doctor spoke.

"Similar murders?"

"This is the first with rope burns," Lestrade said. "But, yes, very similar indeed."

"He wasn't a ruffian," Holmes muttered, looking the body over. "Expensive clothes, manicured nails, clean haircut..."

"Perhaps they were mugged?" The inspector shrugged. His eyes lit up, and he seemed to get excited, as if he were solving the case already. "And then the mugger murdered them and dumped the bodies?"

Watson and Holmes looked at each other again, their eyebrows furrowed slightly. It was the classic look one gave when they actually felt embarrassed for somebody else. In this case, Lestrade.

"A mugger would have killed him instantly," Holmes said briskly. "This was planned, well thought out, had to have taken time." He observed the poor body once more. "Were the victims related?"

"No, Sir," Clarky said. "They all lived in the same area, though."

Watson turned to him. "Cleveland Street?"

"Yes, Sir," Clarky nodded. "The other residents won't speak with us, though. They're a very private bunch."

"Did the other victims dress in the same manner?" Holmes asked.

"They were all fairly clean, yes," Lestrade replied. "Perhaps the killer is jealous of their handsome appearance?"

Watson rolled his eyes and Holmes looked away. They looked over the body one more time, and Holmes clapped his hands. "Very well! We'll take the case!"

"Holmes-" Watson began, but the detective held up a hand to silence him.

"Do we know anything about the Cleveland Street bunch?"

Lestrade and Clarky exchanged glances this time, tugging at their collars nervously. They cleared their throats and shuffled their feet.

Lestrade said, "They're a very private group. We tend to leave them alone."

"They won't talk with you," Clarky added. "We've already tried. They have no intentions of giving information to outsiders."

"We'll be turned away," Watson said as they paraded down the street towards the Cleveland district. "They won't tell us anything, Holmes."

"Sixty percent of human communication is non-verbal," Holmes replied. "It's what they won't tell that will solve the case."

\------------------------------

They arrived at Cleveland Street, one they'd never truly had to cross before, and noticed nothing out of the ordinary about it. The houses were well-maintained, the cafes busy and bright, and people walking up and down the sidewalk as if nothing was wrong. It didn't seem like the kind of place people would be abducted, tortured, and left for dead.

"Richard Winston resided here-" Watson pointed to a house, glancing briefly at the address Lestrad had scribbled down.

They walked up to the door and tapped on it. People were talking inside, and the rap at the door silenced them immediately. After a few moments of odd noises, somebody opened the door. A man with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a pointed nose. His dress shirt was stretched across his skin, as if his bulging biceps couldn't bear to be restricted against the fabric. He frowned at the pair at his door.

"Can I help you?" For such a solid fellow, his voice had an odd texture to it. Almost prissy. He looked from Holmes to Watson, studying them intensely.

"Good afternoon." Holmes smiled. "This is where Richard Winston lived, I presume?"

"Richard's dead," the man said, his voice clotting slightly. "Not like you care. None of you care. You never care."

"You don't even know who I am." Holmes continued to grin stupidly.

"I don't need to know who you are," the man scoffed. "I know what you are and what you think of us!" He opened the door a little wider, his arms flying to his hips. Behind him, three other gentlemen sat around a coffee table, sipping tea.

Holmes took note of the surroundings, especially the contents on the table. Lace doilies, fancy china, small cakes topped with cream and strawberries. The interior design mirrored the choice of food. Everything was decorated in an off-color, or pastel. China figurines decorated curvy-wood shelves, and a vase of flowers sat in a sunny patch near the far window.

"We're terribly sorry about the loss of your friend," Watson said, removing his hat. "That's why we're here. We're hoping we can catch the murderer before he can strike again."

One of the other men spoke up. "Are you from around here?" He said.

Holmes immediately jumped the trust wagon and gave Watson a hearty slap on the back. "Just moved here from Baker street," he chimed. "We're house-hunting, but when we heard of the..." he sighed heavily. "Dreadful events, we weren't sure if this was the right place for us after all."

Watson frowned at him, wondering how the lies rolled so easily off his tongue. He turned back to the gentlemen, and the one who'd opened the door, looked away, shaking his head. He smiled, and gestured for them to come in.

"You're among friends here," he said softly, motioning for them to sit down. "Jasper, fetch our friends some tea, won't you?"

Jasper, who was sitting on the couch, stood up, making a face. "Oh, so now that Richard's gone, I'm your little milkmaid now, is that it?" He stormed off, swishing in his steps.

"Don't mind Jasper," the third man said. "He thinks he's the queen of this dump of a cottage."

Holmes and Watson laughed good-naturedly, Watson's more hallow and nervous than Holmes. He kept a smile plastered to his face, but as he began to intake his surroundings, his palms began to sweat. He'd had two or three patients come to him with embarrassing problems, and they'd all seem to come from the same area. One he could never remember the name of.

"I know it's scary to think that such good people can be broken and beaten," the first man said. "But we're the only accepted community in all of London." He held out his hand. "I'm Ethan, by the way. Ethan James."

"Sherlock Holmes. "The detective shook his hand.

"Dr. John Watson." Watson shook his hand too.

Jasper returned with tea, and let his head roll back dramatically. "We're out of mint leaves...again." He turned to Ethan. "You said you'd go to the market today."

Ethan sighed. "I will go to the market today." He gestured at Holmes and Watson. "Can you not see that we have guests?"

"I know!" Jasper snorted. "You're already eager to replace Richard!" He frowned at the pair. "Just because-" he looked at Holmes. "he has gorgeous eyes and nice shoulders." His gaze moved to Watson. "And he has beautiful lips and an intriguing gaze."

Gorgeous eyes? Beautiful lips? Holmes frowned thoughtfully, but decided the compliments were nice enough of thought nothing of them.

"Why do you always have to be so bloody indignant?" The second man asked. "These poor souls are searching for a place where they can live together in peace, and you're ranting about mint leaves."

"Well, Edward," Jasper said in a snotty toe. "You're one to talk. The linens you bought are just dreadful. Everybody knows purple and yellow don't go together."

"Gentlemen," Ethan said sternly. He smiled at Holmes and Watson. "I apologize for my friends. We're all a bit shaken over Richard's demise."

"Completely understandable," Holmes nodded, sipping his tea. His eyes lit up. It was probably the best tea he'd ever tasted.

"We're very private, this community," Ethan continued. "Everyone leaves us alone, but they know."

"That's why they shrug off the murders," Edward sighed. "They think it's for our own good that our neighbors and friends are losing their lives." He chuckled sadly. "Just because men live together, and share clothes, and eat off of eachother's plates."

"What's wrong with that?" Holmes, Watson noticed, really didn't get what was going on. The doctor squirmed uncomfortably, knowing these were all things that he and Holmes did on a regular basis.

"Nothing!" Jasper threw his arms up. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes! Nothing is wrong with it! And why it bothers so many people is beyond me!" He huffed. "I mean, for God's sake, Alexander the bloody great slept with men!"

Holmes choked on his tea. When funny glances came his way, he coughed, "Swallowed too fast."

Jasper grinned at Edward and muttered, "That's what you said last night."

Watson choked this time, and on nothing. They quickly regained composure, reality finally dawning on Holmes and everyrthing coming together quickly. He looked at Watson, who frowned at him angrily, breathing heavily through his nose.

"So how long have you two been together?" Ethan smiled sweetly. "And let me say that you're a darling pair."

"Aren't they?" Edward sighed. "I just love the little details about you. It's the little details that are the most important, in my opinion."

Holmes scratched his head awkwardly, not eager to admit that he held the same opinion. Silence filled the room and Ethan gingerly placed his teacup back on its decorative saucer.

"I can't tell you how much we appreciate your help, gentlemen," he said. "And I just want you to know that Cleveland Street welcomes you with open arms."

"Very open arms," Jasper said, a bit flirtatiously. He looked at Holmes. "Doctor, if you ever decide you need a break from your usual medicine, give him to me and I'll take care of him."

Watson inhaled deeply through his nose, stiffening, and Holmes turned a million different shades of red before shrugging one shoulder and smiling awkwardly.

"Leave them alone, you tart!" Ethan scoffed playfully. His eyes lit up. "You know! Our second story floor is vacant. We were holding it for two new residents, but they're a very snobbish pair, muttering about the paint job and what not."

"Why don't you two take it?" Edward finished. "We won't even charge you since you're here on business, willing to track down those awful killers."

"Oh, well..." Holmes desperately faltered for an excuse. He mentally kicked himself for using the excuse of house hunting. "We wouldn't want to be a bother."

"He means that," Watson smiled helpfully. "My friend can be very noisy in the middle of the night."

"Ooohhh," Edward nodded, and gave him a wink. "You see, Doctor, I would have pegged you as the noisy one." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But just between this lot, us downstair residents really don't mind that kind of noise."

Watson turned red this time, and Holmes pretended to be looking for clues in his empty teacup. Ethan stood up, clapping his hands, his weight resting on one hip. "So it's settled, then! Our guests may reside upstairs."

"We have a dog," Watson tried one last time to talk their way out of it. "A bulldog."

"Oohhhh..." they placed hands over their hearts, their faces melting with love.

"So you have a baby!" Jasper cooed. "That is so precious."

\--------------------------------------------------------

"I'm going to murder you!" Watson hissed when they finally left.

"How was I supposed to know?" Holmes demanded. "It's not like there were any signs!"

Watson blew up. "DID YOU OPEN YOUR EYES, YOU DAFT IMBECILE? THERE WERE SIGNS EVERYWHERE YOU LOOKED!"

Ethan opened the door. "Everything alright, Gents?"

Watson and Holmes smiled.

"Grand," Holmes assured him.

Ethan nodded. "Hurry up and bring your things," he said. "Jasper's cooking a pork roast for dinner. It's the best."

"We could always just...never return," Holmes shrugged.

"They're counting on us to catch the killer of their friend," Watson sighed, closing his eyes. "We can't let them down, even if they are...different."

"By the way," Holmes wondered aloud. "Which one do you think Richard belonged to anyway?"

Watson shook his head and walked ahead of him. Holmes caught up. "So you're up for it, then?"

"Up for what?" Watson scoffed, "Pretending to be with you, living in a house full of lady-men, while working on a case when I could be brushing up on my medicine?" He stopped. "Yes, I'm up for it, but only because you put me in that situation."

"They did make good tea," Holmes muttered helpfully.

"Yes, they did," Watson nodded, also muttered. He found where he'd mislaid his anger. "Now let's just get to work on the damned case so we can be done with this crazy lot."

\-----------------------------------------------------

"Oh! He's gorgeous!" Edward cooed when Gladstone waddled into the house. "And look at how shiny his coat is!"

"Flax seed," Holmes explained. "Does wonders to hair." He set some luggage down.

"Sounds like you need some," Edward told Jasper, who immediately fingered his hair defensively.

"The bed is a bit small," Ethan told them, leading them up the stairs. "But you should both be able to sleep comfortably in it."

"Bed..." Holmes repeated slowly, looking at Watson. "Right."

"So when and where was Richard abducted?" Watson asked.

"He left for a pub after dinner with some colleagues," Ethan said, setting their suitcases on the bed. "He didn't come home." A sad expression crossed his face and it was obvious who had been Richard's partner. "I found him the next morning, but I can't say I was surprised."

"And this happens often?" Holmes quizzed.

"The killings, no," the other man replied. "The kidnappings, yes. It's why we built our own cafes, stores...we don't want to have to set foot outside the neighborhood unless we have to. Too many dangerous people wanting to hurt us."

He looked around. "That'll do? For now, I mean."

"Thank you." Holmes looked at Watson, who stared back at him.

Ethan nodded slowly. "Right...well, dinner's in half an hour, and we're going to have a wine-gab after."

" 'Wine-gab'?" Watson repeated.

"We drink some of the finest wine we can find over the month and just...talk," Ethan explained.

Watson and Holmes both looked down. Another thing they did on a regular basis, in their oh-so-very-straight home. Ethan left them alone and Holmes immediately began searching the room for clues.

\---------------------------------------------------------

"This was a lousy idea," Watson said, staring up at the ceiling.

"I think undercover missions are rather intriguing," Holmes muttered, picking up a hair and observing it closely. "It has the excitement of police work, but the artistry of theatre."

\--------------------------------------------------------

"And so then, Giles walks right up to him, and tells him that his trousers are out of season!" A semi-drunk Jasper said, and the other men busted out laughing.

Holmes and Watson fake-laughed, wondering why that joke was even humorous. The pork roast dinner really had been good, and the wine was amazing.

"So," Jasper turned to the pair. "How long have you two been together?"

"Three years," Holmes said, considering it truthful enough.

"Jesus," Edward whispered, shaking his head. He chuckled. "You blokes are practically married then, aren't you?"

"Tell me, Doctor," Jasper said. "What's the sexiest thing about your Sherlock?"

Holmes looked at Watson, curiousity written all over his face. Ruse or not, this was bound to be interesting. The doctor shifted uncomfortably and swirled his wine around in his glass.

"His needy...ness..." Holmes then realized that Watson himself was bit tipsy. This was going to be very interesting. He looked at Holmes. "He's a brilliant man, really, but I have to take care of him, watch him constantly, scold him..." he blinked heavily, shaking his head a bit. " Love him." The words were so quiet, Holmes almost didn't hear him.

"Aww..." Jasper, Edward, and Ethan cooed.

"And you, Mr. Holmes?" Edward looked at the detective.

"His mustache." Holmes took a gulp of his wine, and the men laughed all over again.

\----------------------------------------------------------

The wine had just started to wear off by the time bedtime rolled around, and Holmes haned the doctor a tall glass of water. Watson downed it and stared at the bed. He looked at Holmes.

"I suppose you could sleep on the floor," the detective shrugged.

"We'll share it," Watson groaned, knowing all of the coded language of the mentally-disturbed sleuth.

Living in a gay boarding house, pretending to be one of them, how could they not be mentall disturbed?

 

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Sleeping in the same bed turned out to hardly be a problem at all. Holmes fell asleep the second he closed his eyes, possibly to avoid anymore complaining from Watson.

The doctor watched him, sitting up in the bed, and looked away, shaking his head. The room was chilly and the comforter was thin. He laid down, slightly uncomfortable because of the temperature, and could practically feel heat radiating from his co-lodger. He stared at the far wall for a long time, and finally turned the other way, inching closer to Holmes until they were touching. The detective grunted in his sleep and rolled over, his face buried in Watson's chest. The doctor bit the corner of his lip, staring down at the mop of unruly dark hair. He closed his eyes.

\-------------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Holmes?" A knock at the door awoke them. "Dr. Watson?

Watson woke first, looking around, trying to remember where he was. There was something warm on his neck, and he realized it was Holmes' mouth. He was drooling on him.

"Wake up!" The doctor hissed, shaking him awake.

Holmes groggily sat up, blinking heavily and scratching his chest under his shirt.

"Lads?" Ethan opened the door a crack and took a quick peek around before stepping in. "Breakfast is ready."

Breakfast was much more than breakfast. When Holmes and Watson reached the dining room, they were not expecting so much food: ham steaks, boiled eggs, toast, tea, coffee, croissants, jams, fresh fruits...

"I take it you two slept well?" Edward grinned, peering over a morning paper.

"Coffee or tea?" Ethan asked, the perfect host.

At the same time, Holmes said, "Coffee" and Watson said, "Tea".

They looked at each other, and Watson reminded him quietly, "Coffee makes you jittery."

"Tea," Holmes muttered sullenly.

They sat down at the table and Jasper cocked his head slightly, staring at them intently. Ethan broke his gaze by moving between the trio to fix plates. He set them before Holmes and Watson, beaming. "Eat up!"

As they ate, Holmes began to discuss the case. "Has anyone confessed to seeing the murders?"

"Not one," Edward sighed, putting the paper down. "Poor Richard."

Watson snatched up the paper, his only link to the real world.

"Surely he wouldn't have left the pub alone," Holmes suggested. "You said he was with some friends?"

"Richard's not-" Ethan began, and then sadly corrected himself. "wasn't a night owl. He probably left early."

"Perhaps we should visit this pub, Watson," Holmes said absent-mindedly.

" 'Watson'?" Jasper's brows furrowed. "You call him Watson?"

Holmes and Watson quickly exchanged glances at Watson lied, "When he's upset with me."

The other men stared at them.

"Why are you upset with him?" Edward asked him sincerely.

Holmes looked at Watson again, who looked away, muttering something about finally being caught.

"He threw out my favorite shirt without my knowledge." It wasn't a total lie. It had really happened once.

"It had a big rip in the side," Watson replied, catching on. He too, was being partial to the truth.

"And he complains about my violin playing." Holmes was obviously enjoying a sympathetic audience.

"You wake up at strange hours just to pluck a few notes on it," Watson shook his head, his brows furrowed.

"And he tricked me into eating eggplant once." Holmes frowned at Watson, his voice lowering. "Even though he knows I'm allergic to it."

"You are not!" Watson barked, but the others quickly intervened.

"Oh, Darling," Edward said, smacking his lips. "John cares for you, that's all."

"And Sherlock sounds like your perfect match," Ethan said. "After all, a fine doctor like yourself probably has a lot of patience and understanding." He clapped his hands. "That's enough then! Let's kiss and make up!"

"Beg pardon?" Holmes looked at him as though he hadn't heard him correctly.

"I agree," Jasper nodded. "So you two snog and say you're sorry."

The doctor and detective's brains were doing a one-eighty together, trying to think of a reason why this event would not have to take place. They stared at each other, babbling incoherent nonsense to the others.

"Let's put the shirt and violin nonsense behind us," Ethan said. "One kiss and all your troubles will melt away."

Holmes finally just shrugged helplessly and Watson rolled his eyes slightly. They leaned forward, closing their eyes, and their lips met. It was jolting at first, almost like getting shocked, but as their lips parted, bottoms touching tops, the hint of teeth and tongues, it was...different.

They pulled away, and the other men applauded.

"See?" Edward smiled. "That wasn't so hard."

Watson and Holmes smiled and shrugged, their expressions flustered and nervous, but only because it was true. It really hadn't been that hard.

\-------------------------------------------------

They spent the remainder of the day working on the case. It turned out Richard had been book editor, fairly wealthy and popular. It was amazing he'd been able to keep his lifestyle a secret. The other two victims had been friends of his, also homosexuals.

The pub Richard had visited the night of his death had little vital information other than he couldn't have been killed there. It would have been too busy. Somebody would have see, and fetched help.

Holmes recalled the image of the corpse, and the murder came to life in his head. A slightly tipsy Richard Winston leaves the pub. He rounds the corner and is met by his killer. They strike him in the head with something-most likely a lead pipe or steel crowbar. While he's succumbing to a concussion, they drag him a few blocks away, restraining him at the wrists and ankles, and beat him again...until he finally dies...

\--------------------------------------------

"So how is the case coming along?" Ethan asked over dinner.

"Did Richard have any enemies here?" Holmes asked. "On Cleveland Street?"

"It was somebody from the outside," Jasper scoffed. "They probably found out about his disturbing secret and decided to punish him for it."

Holmes chewed thoughtfully, staring into space. "So he had no enemies that he knew by name."

"Everybody loved Richard!" Jasper stood up. "He was a kind, decent man who never wished harm on anybody!"

"Jasper." Edward cleared his throat and tugged at his friend's elbow, motioning for him to sit back down.

"Sherlock." Watson shot him a warning look. "Perhaps we should drop it for now."

"I'm terribly sorry about Jasper," Ethan said later. "I'll admit he doesn't have tact when it comes to things like this."

Watson only nodded and Sherlock looked away, glossy-eyed, his mind elsewhere. The three of them were in the parlor, untouched tea in front of them.

"We were in love," Ethan said quietly, staring into his cold, milky brew. "He was my life."

Again, the doctor nodded silently. Ethan leaned back into the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. "What Jasper said was true, though. It should have been one of us. Richard was loved by all."

"We really are truly sorry," Watson said quietly. When Holmes added no comment, he elbowed him in the ribs.

"Very sorry," Holmes said.

\-------------------------------------------

"Tonight you are not to slobber on me," Watson said, making the bed.

"Right." Holmes paced the room, hardly listening. "Watson, how outlandish would it sound if I were to propose that somebody here murdered Winston?"

"What makes you think that?" Watson asked. "And here as in the community? Or here as in this house?"

"Community," Holmes replied. "The rope burns were not aligned. Whoever tortured Richard did not know how to bind properly, or tightly enough. They had weak hands." He blew on his pipe. "The bruising was repetitive to certain spots, so the killer also wasn't strong enough to make proper blows to the right spots."

Watson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but shrugged off whatever thoughts were forming in his head. He climbed into bed. "I guess we'll find out in the morning," he yawned.

"We will." Holmes began looking around, even under the bed. "We're going out to talk to some of the residents around here." He stood back up, scratching his head. "Where is my violin?"

"I hid it." The doctor's eyes didn't even open. "I don't want you playing at two in the morning, in somebody else's house."

Holmes frowned. He walked over to an empty jug and began to blow in it, eyeing Watson. The doctor tried to ignore him at first, but the sound became too irritating, and he sat up.

"Just sleep like a normal person," he almost whined.

"Never." Holmes tossed the jug over his shoulder and it shattered into a million pieces.

"HOLMES!" Watson got out of bed. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Muttering angrily, he walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out the violin. "Here."

Holmes took it, and then handed it back. "I don't want it."

"Take it!" Watson ordered. "You already made a series of unpleasant sounds already."

"No." Holmes shook his head, taking a step back.

"I am about to break this," Watson warned. "Take it."

"You wouldn't break it." He almost sounded worried.

Watson scowled, and set it down gently. "Good night." He moved back to the bed.

Holmes picked up the violin, and gently plucked one of the chords. When Watson did nothing, he plucked two. Three, four...he began to play, pacing the room and muttering about murderer methods. Watson finally got back out bed, wordlessly, and grabbed the detective by the arm, parading him back to the bed.

"Go to sleep!" He ordered.

Holmes climbed into bed. "Watson," he sighed casually. "I'm not tired."

"Count sheep," the sleepy doctor muttered.

"You know I can't do that," Holmes said. "My sheep never jump over the fence."

"Let me guess," Watson turned over so Holmes couldn't see him grinning. "They all cluster beside it, smoking pipes, gabbing about how the fence got there."

"Yes..." It was just like Holmes to answer like he was so surprised.

"Goodnight, Holmes."

"Goodnight, Watson." The detective finally yawned. "Pleasant dreams."

"If only," Watson muttered.

 

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

It was still dark out when Watson woke. He groggily rolled over and realized he was alone in the bed. He sat up, blinking heavily, and crawled back to the other side, leaning towards the end table to retrieve his pocket watch. It was only after three.

It wasn't unlike Holmes to be up so early. It was strange, however, for him not to be anywhere in sight. The doctor rolled out of bed, scratching his head sleepily. He looked around the small room, his eyes finally settling on the desk. A single sheet of paper fluttered around in the draft, weighted down by Holmes' violin. He took it and read quickly.

'Gone to brothel. Be back soon'

It was just like Holmes to be so vague and casual about sneaking off in the dead of the night to visit a whore-house. Watson cursed under his breath, shaking his head. He quickly dressed and quietly snuck downstairs.

\---------------------------------------------

Male brothels were intriguing. The detective would have never guessed that so many different kinds of men visited them. He recognized a few- wealthy businessmen, writers, a few off-duty policemen. He watched them all from a table in the back, away in a dark corner. Nobody seemed to notice his presence.

His disguise was clever enough. Most of the gentlemen in Cleveland dressed far nicer than the average man. He'd taken note of this and carefully sorted through his and Watson's collection, and finally put together a handsome ensemble.

"Come here often?"

He looked up, a bit startled by the broken silence, and smiled awkwardly. "Just got word of the place," he said.

The man was large, and not big-boned. Muscular, he was. He was wearing a nicer outfit than everybody in the building put together, and an expensive haircut to boot. He sat down across from the detective.

"Are you looking for work?" He grinned slyly, coiling his fingers around his drink.

"I'm here on work, actually," Holmes replied, absent-mindedly, sipping his own drink. "Did you know a Richard Winston?"

"Never heard of him," the man said, shaking his head. "Are you supposed to meet him?"

"I should hope not," Holmes muttered, craning his neck to get a better look of the ever-growing crowd.

The other man studied him, squinting curiously, and pointed to the mass. "Who's that over there?"

Holmes whipped his head around in the direction of the finger, suddenly thinking it might be Watson. If so, he would never hear the end of it. While he looked for the doctor, the man leaned across the small table and dropped a tablet into his drink, watching it dissolve quickly.

Holmes turned back to him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't catch your name."

"Do you need it?" The man grinned devilishly.

"Maybe I want it," the detective replied, daring to be flirtatious. There was something sinister about the stranger, and Holmes wondered if it had something to do with the sinister killings afoot.

He gulped down the rest of his drink, and was immediately hit with drowsiness. He coughed, falling back against his chair, sliding down. The man quickly stood up and moved around the table to catch him before he could hit the floor. Forcing Holmes to his feet, gripping him under the arms, he leaned into his ear. "You new fags are all the same," he whispered. "This isn't a pub, Darling. It's a brothel. You're immediately up for grabs."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt lifeless. He began to sweat and his vision blurred.

"Off we go then." The man half walked, half dragged the detective away from the table.

\-----------------------------------

"A 'brothel'?" Ethan repeated when Watson returned to the house, sweating and disheveled.

"I've looked everywhere for it," the doctor sighed.

"You won't find it!" Ethan scoffed. "It's very private. An underground facility." He handed him a cup of coffee. "Why would Sherlock be at a brothel?"

Watson took a sip of the hot liquid, stalling for time. He mentally rattled off all of the plausible answers, and finally said, "He's an idiot."

"Clearly," Ethan agreed, his eyebrows raised. "He's got you. Why in God's name does he need to service a brothel?"

"What is a brothel exactly?" Watson decided to play dumb, deciding it would help their identities rather than hurt them.

Ethan frowned. "You're not serious."

"I've, um..." Oh, good lord, was he actually imitating Holmes' puppy-dog eyes? "I was raised in a very strict, very closed religious community. I usually just pretend...to know about such things."

By the way Ethan was staring at him, Watson knew he was not as good a liar as Holmes.

"It's not a pub," Ethan finally said. "If that's what you're thinking."

Watson couldn't believe he was buying it, or at least pretending to. He sipped his coffee again.

"It's a gentlemen's club," Ethan said. "A lonely man's gentlemen club." He sighed. "Doctor, with all due respect, I know you know what it is."

Okay, so he didn't buy it. Watson paled. They were going to be found out right then and there. All because Holmes was crazy enough t run away to a secret sport house.

"Look," Ethan lowered his voice. "You don't have to be ashamed, alright?" He stared up at the ceiling, and then back at Watson. "You and Sherlock are new to the game-one of you was bound to get curious."

Watson nodded, putting on the best embarrassed expression he could muster. He stared into his coffee cup, trying to look hurt. Ethan patted his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Look, I'll get you the address, you'll go fetch your man before he gets himself into trouble, and we'll make sure this event never leaves this room."

"Thank you." Maybe he wasn't such a bad actor after all.

\--------------------------------------------

Holmes faded in and out of consciousness, his head dizzy and throbbing. He could feel a stale mattress beneath him, the man's hands all over him, working quickly to remove the detective's clothes. Holmes muttered something along the lines of 'stop', but his lips were silenced by a forceful hand.

Between the nausea and pain swirling in his head-his ears pounding, he heard yelling. Yelling and grunting. Cracking...breaking...

He felt the bed shake violently and then there was silence. Through distorted eyes he saw another. A hand gently moved to his sweaty forehead, resting there. Fingers touched his throat and wrists.

"It's alright, old boy."

Watson.

He thought he said his name, but he wasn't sure. Oh, how he tried. In his head he was rattling off a million thank yous and apologies, but he wasn't sure if they ever made it to his mouth.

He could feel the doctor checking him over for injuries, and then re-checking for any he might have missed the first time. He closed his eyes, feeling safe enough to succumb to the sleep he'd been fighting for the past half-hour.

\-------------------------------------------------

"I should have left you there."

The detective awoke to see Watson seated across the room, fuming. He was staring out the window. Holmes sat up, yawning. The doctor glanced at him, and then back to the window.

"Are you upset?" Holmes yawned again.

"I'm royally pissed if you want the God's honest truth," Watson said, standing up. "Do you know how I found you?"

"No, I was unconscious," the detective said in one casual breath, also standing up.

"With some Adonis straddled over you trying to take off your belt," the doctor said. "Does that not worry you? At all?" He sighed, his anger dissolving just a bit. "You should have told me."

"You would have never let me go," Holmes retorted, but not in a biting way.

"We could have gone together," Watson countered.

"To a brothel?" Holmes raised his eyebrows.

Watson only continued to frown. "I'm not laughing."

"I didn't say you were," Holmes said.

That's all it took. Watson stormed over to him and punched him in the face. Holmes staggered backwards, and looked away, guilty as anything. Watson shook his head, disgusted, and stormed out of the room. He was met by Ethan on the stairs.

"Everything alright?" Ethan asked.

"Yes," Watson smiled, nodding. "Thank you."

 

To Be Continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Over breakfast, Holmes and Watson spoke to everyone except each other. Ethan pretended not to notice, filling everybody's plates with pastries. Jasper frowned at them, and Edward stared at Holmes' black eye, horrified.

"Christ almighty, what happened to your face?" He asked, reaching over to trace the bruise.

Holmes looked at Watson and the doctor looked down, guilty. The detective took a sip of his tea. "I fell off the bed."

"And did what?" Jasper snorted. "Fly across the room?" He and Edward began laughing. "Hit the wall?"

Watson smiled slightly, silently thanking Holmes, and Holmes fake-roared, slapping the tabletop and wiping his eyes. Jasper cleared his throat and asked, "Seriously. What happened?"

Holmes stopped laughing. He drummed his fingers against the edge of his plate. Watson sighed and tossed his napkin onto his plate, leaning back in his chair. "I hit him."

The other man slowly moved from their stares from Holmes to Watson. They shifted uncomfortably, and then Edward nodded, squinting slightly. "I get it."

"You do?" Holmes sounded a tad too paranoid, even for him.

"They like it rough," Jasper said quietly, grinning.

Holmes and Watson relaxed, but then tensed again, red creeping onto their faces. Edward and Jasper nodded at them, and Holmes placed his napkin over his chest, like they were undressing him with their eyes. Ethan began clearing the table, trying to change the subject. It failed.

"You know what we should do today?" Edward asked, standing up. He smiled at Holmes and Watson. "Something men do only when they come to terms with who they really are."

Jasper nodded. "Something they can only do with other men like themselves, and not feel ashamed."

Holmes scooted his chair back, thumping his foot against the floor. Watson held him down by the shoulder, staring at the others. "What's that?" he asked.

Jasper, Edward, and Ethan grinned at each other, and then at them. "Shopping."

\-------------------------------------------

"Wrong color." Ethan shook his head when Edward and Jasper dragged Watson out from behind the modesty screen. "Try a dark mustard."

They pulled him back behind the curtain, and Holmes watched with slight worry as their silhouettes tore clothes from him, mercilessly spinning him around. He looked around, looking for a proper escape route.

"How about this one?" Edward peeked around the wall and held up another jacket.

Ethan cocked his head, rubbing his chin. He turned to Holmes. "What do you think?"

Holmes was already a few feet away. He turned around sheepishly. "What do I think?" He looked at Watson, who looked so pathetic he almost laughed at him.

"Yes, you," Ethan replied. "I mean, you know him better than anybody else."

Holmes didn't even pick up on the comment being part of the ruse. He cocked his head, circling the doctor, ducking and raising his head. "It doesn't suit him at all."

"Why not?" Jasper scowled. Obviously he'd picked it out.

"Wat-John is a strong, solid individual. Clothes are of little importance to him," the detective explained quickly. "They are a necessity, not a hobby. However-" he tugged on Watson's jacket sleeve. "Looks are very important to the naked eye. He needs neutral colors, but a tight fit. He needs people to know he means business." He stared at Watson.

"Wow." Edward mouthed. "That was beautiful, Sherlock." The others murmered in agreement.

"You heard him, Gents." Ethan clapped his hands. "Let's get on with it."

They happily dragged Watson back behind the screen. Ethan smiled at Holmes, and Holmes smiled back. When they emerged with Watson again, Holmes stopped smiling. His friend was dressed simply, but very elequent, very professional. His clothes fit a bit smugly, but it made him seem more masculine, despite his being a bit on the thin side.

"Don't you like it?" Edward asked sadly.

Holmes shook himself out of whatever deep concentration he was in. "Yes," he whispered, and then cleared his throat. "Very nice."

Watson was happy to see Holmes be dragged away. He wasn't as polite about being touched, but a couple of scuffs to the head and slaps to the wrist and his shadow stood obdiently behind the screen.

Ethan poked his head out. "Doctor?"

"Mm?" Watson raised his eyebrows.

"What do you think?" The other man asked. "What should we dress him in?"

Watson raised his eyes, as if to stare at his own brain. "Sherlock...doesn't like to be restricted." 

He looked back at the detective, who they'd pulled out halfway, his face sulking.

"He can't have tight-fitting clothes, they make him claustraphobic. " He touched his index finger to his chin, tapping it repeatedly. "He's not bland in the least, his colors have to stand out."

"But not too much," Holmes pointed out, secretly referring to being a sleuth.

" 'Course not, Darling," Watson smirked. He turned to the others. "He has to look fabulous, but without trying."

Jasper, Edward, and Ethan pulled it off and then some. Holmes emerged from the screen, tugging at his collar. His jacket and pants were long and baggy, a deep black, his shirt an extra bright white. His scarf was dotted with design, a rich red. The only thing not sexy and suave about him was his unkempt hair.

"This is the best we could do," Jasper shrugged.

A smile tugged at the corner of the doctor's lips. He walked over to smooth out the wrinkles in Holmes' sleeves, and whispered, "It's perfect."

Holmes looked up from fingering the dark material of his jacket and looked at Watson. Watson's smile was still there, but he looked away, biting his bottom lip.

\--------------------------------------------

"So you still think Winston was killed by somebody around here?" Watson asked that night as they prepared for bed.

"Mm." Holmes was listening, but not paying much attention. He was staring at himself in the full-length closet mirror, wearing his new jacket over his ragged shirt and sleep trousers. Watson noticed and chuckled slightly.

"Find any clues today?" He asked, climbing into bed.

"As a matter of fact," Holmes turned around quickly, almost spinning. "I did."

He began to pace around. "I found out that Richard kept a journal. A personal journal."

Watson looked around. "Where is it?"

"In his editing notes." Holmes retrieved a thick leather folder from under the bed. "You have to read it vertically. He wrote it that way, making sure every word of his editing notes began with the correct letter to form a word going down the page."

He pointed to one of the scribbled notes.

'I find this novel most interesting.  
With all good writing comes bad competition.  
A setence should never begin with a pronoun.  
Never use the term 'stuff'.  
The grammar is good, but could be better.  
Yield in run-on sentences.  
Objective use of language is key.  
Under no circumstances, write side notes in edit-ready work'

" 'I want you'," Watson said, reading it correctly. "Do all of his notes do this?"

"Some of them," Holmes said, closing the binder. "The fake ones, anyway. Winston didn't want somebody to know something about somebody else."

"So you think he was having an affair?" Watson's brows furrowed skeptically.

"He wouldn't need to," Holmes shrugged. "He was a brilliant, successful man. He lived two lives, Watson. One here in Cleveland, and the other in the real world." He climbed into bed, still sitting up. "He could have anybody he wanted-man or woman. He was a master of deception."

Watson nodded. "So the killer definitely had a motive, but why the other victims?"

"All in good time, Watson." Holmes yawned. "All in good time."

He laid down and Watson stared at him. "I won't wake up to find you back at the brothel, will I?"

"My work there is done." The detective's eyes didn't even open.

Watson shifted, and Holmes knew something else was on his mind. Something he wanted to say. He rolled over, staring up at the doctor. "Out with it then."

"I just feel like we're not always on equal footing, that's all," Watson confessed, leaning back on his hands. "You never tell me your plans, and just expect me to be alright with whatever happens to you."

"Aren't you?" Holmes sounded confused.

"Holmes..." Watson groaned. His voice was almost a whisper. "You know I'm not."

They were silent for a moment, and Holmes nodded, looking down at the blankets. "Alright then," he said quietly. "From now on, no secrets between us."

Watson thrust out his hand. Holmes shook it. They both laid down, and Watson reached over to turn out the lamp. After a few moments, he heard his friend's breathing become slow and deep. He tossed and turned, knowing Holmes was a heavy enough sleeper and it wouldn't bother him. He sat up, staring into the dark. Silently swearing, he laid back down. Minutes later he was sitting up again.

He stared down at Holmes, and looked away, shaking his head. Finally, he licked his lips, biting them, and slowly leaned down. He had just started to brush his lips over the other man's, when Holmes shot up, scaring him so badly he fell off the bed.

"Incredible," Holmes mused, wide-eyed, staring into space.

"What?" Watson climbed back onto the bed, rubbing the back of his head painfully.

"One of Richard's ruse-editing notes," Holmes explained quickly, climbing out of the bed. "They spelled out the sentence 'Things I'll never say to you, only to those who don't care'." He clapped his hands and turned around, grinning at Watson. "That's why the others were murdered. He told them whatever secret he was keeping that got him killed."

Watson nodded. "Ah."

Holmes climbed back into bed. "I apologize for waking you." He fell back asleep almost instantly.

By that point, all courage had drained from the doctor, and he rolled over, facing the wall. Sleep came, but a long time later.

 

To Be Continued...


	5. Chapter 5

"You're up early," Jasper mused, entering the kitchen to find Holmes pouring himself a cup of coffee.

The detective briefly turned around, and then went back to his cup. "Yes."

Jasper continued to stare at him, sliding into one of the chairs. "Mind pouring me a cup?"

"Certainly." Holmes brought two cups to the table. He sat down across from him, and an awkward fog floated between them.

Jasper sipped at his hot liquid, pulling the cup back and licking his lips. "Richard preferred black coffee too."

Holmes nodded, glugging his own black coffee down. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains, the morning air cool and pleasant.

"So tell me about you and John," Jasper said, waving his hand around in a semi-circle. "You two seem to have such an odd relationship."

Holmes tapped his fingers against his cup. Could he possibly know? Had he already dug through the nest of lies, and figured out the truth?

"We're compatible," he said. "We balance each other out. John is sensible, realistic-he has an eye for caution and I don't know the meaning of it."

Jasper stared down into the contents of his cup. "Doesn't that ever grow old? Always being told what to do?"

"Well, without him," Holmes said simply. "I'm almost positive I'd been dead three years ago."

Speaking of which, Watson entered the room, eyeing the stove and then the cup in the detective's hand. He sighed, pouring himself a cup. "You're going to be bouncing off the bloody walls," he muttered.

The detective ignored his comment and said cheerfully, "John, Dear, I think we should go into town today."

Watson made a face, moving the cup away from his lips. "God, Holmes! Why don't you just eat the grounds?"

Jasper narrowed his eyes at the doctor. He stood up, and sauntered over to the stove. "I can milk it, if you like," he offered.

Watson shook his head. "No, it's alright." He turned to Holmes. "When do you want to leave?"

 

\-------------

 

"So we're going to Winston's office?" Watson asked when they headed out. "What for exactly?"

"Something there is bound to tell us more about his life," the detective replied briskly. "His other life."

The office building was locked, naturally, but Holmes carefully stepped aside and Watson kicked the door in. The inside was cluttered, a sea of loose papers and books. Atop the desk in the far corner, if one could even make out a desk, was a single red rose perched high on a stack of notes. Holmes picked it up, smelled it, and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it closely.

"Somebody's been here," he muttered casually, setting the flower down. "Somebody with their own key."

"Or Winston's key," Watson suggested.

"Or Winston's key," Holmes agreed. He moved to the corner between the bookself and the desk, moving things around on the floor with his foot. He paused, and knelt down, picking something up between his index finger and thumb. A rope.

"Watson," he said quietly.

The doctor moved his way and took the rope from him, studying it. He nodded. "Same kind he'd been restrained with."

He looked around and pointed to a large stack of notes, tied together with the same rope. Holmes glanced in the same direction and said, "The killer definitely had a motive."

In his mind, he saw it. A faceless individual, frantically sorting through the stack of notes, their hands trembling with rage. They pick up the rope that bundled the stack, and storm away.

"I think we need to find out more about Richard's relationship with each of his housemates," he said.

Watson frowned at the piece of rope in his hand. "You don't think..."

"We're not jumping to conclusions," Holmes assured him, but his face told just the opposite.

 

\--------------------------

 

After dinner, Holmes suggested a wine-gab, producing an expensive bottle of wine he and Watson had picked up on their way home. They figured the gentlemen would be a bit more truthful with loose tongues.

"Your company is most enjoyable, lads," Edward slurred after a few glasses.

"Indeed." Ethan raised his own glass. "Cheers."

They all leaned in and clinked their drinks together. Holmes took a sip and said, "And a special toast to Richard Winston, who could not be with us on this beautiful night."

"Speaking of Richard," Watson spoke up, carefully rehearsed. "What was he like?"

Edward leaned back in his chair. "Darling," he said.

"Very nice," Ethan agreed, nodding.

"My best friend." Jasper gulped down the rest of what remained in his glass and poured himself another.

Holmes looked between Ethan and Jasper. "He was your best friend?"

"They moved here together," Ethan explained. "But not as a couple, just a pair of friends." He laughed. "Sometimes I got a bit jealous."

"Ah, now." Edward leaned over and kissed Jasper on the cheek. "There was nothing to be jealous of, old boy."

"So you-" Holmes pointed to Ethan. "Were with Richard, and you two-" he moved his hand between Jasper and Edward.

"Yes." Edward bobbed his head up and down. "I was mad about Jasper for months, but he teased me and teased me." He leaned on his partner's shoulder.

"It's difficult," Jasper said. "Being in love with someone and they don't love you back."

"But you do love me back," Edward slurred, titlting Jasper's head so he could kiss him.

"Yes," Jasper whispered, parting their lips briefly before kissing him again. "Yes, I do."

Ethan swirled his wine. "So tell us your story, gents."

Holmes and Watson simultaneously took a drink. They set their glasses down and looked at each other, hoping they could quickly conjure up a story together.

"It's hard to explain," Watson said, clearing his throat. "Our courtship snuck up on us."

"We didn't even know we had feelings for each ohter," Holmes shrugged. When Watson looked at him strangely, he quickly added, "feelings like that."

"I figured it was something like that," Ethan said smiling, a twinkle in his eye.

"So what does your bedtime behavior entail?" Edward asked, smiling slyly.

Holmes and Watson glanced at each other again. Watson picked up his glass, leaving the conversation to his master-of-disguise partner.

"Well..." Holmes faltered.

"You don't have to answer that," Ethan said, frowning at Edward.

"I imagine they-" Edward tipsily sang out and Jasper covered his mouth, laughing.

 

\---------------------------

 

Watson entered the bedroom, towel-drying his hair from the bath, and looked at Holmes, shaking his head. The detective was on the floor, his wrists and ankles bound with rope.

"Oh, Watson." He inched up the wall, sitting up. "I'm glad you're back. I was trying to test the strength of the rope, deciding if Winston was conscious when he was restrained."

"And your conclusion?" The doctor sat on the bed, still staring at him.

"I wouldn't know." Holmes shrugged, the best he could anyway. "I'm a perfectionist in this field, and I always tend to tie the ropes too tightly." He fidgeted. "The way a capture should be done."

Watson nodded. "Mmhmm." He laid down. "Good luck with that then."

Holmes smiled and nodded. "Thank you." He squirmed and struggled against the rough material, cursing under his breath. Occassionally he would glance up at Watson.

"Would you mind...?" He finally asked, somewhat meekly.

Watson rolled off the bed and moved to untie him. As he worked at the knots, grunting, he said, "You know, I should wonder about you. I really should." He let his head roll back, muttering about how tight the knots were. "But I don't. I've completely stopped questioning your methods."

He managed to shred the cord a bit, it being thin to begin with, but it was still fastened tightly, chaffing the detective's wrists. He pulled back, sitting on his knees, and laughed a little. "Jesus," he muttered.

"Perhaps a knife." Holmes peeked around him, eyeing the doctor's walking stick, where a steel blade was hidden beneath the wood.

"No." Watson sounded irritated, still working at the ropes. "I can get it."

Holmes let his eyes move upward, trying to be patient with his friend's stubborn pride. He looked back down, his brows furrowing slightly when he felt hot breath on his hands. Watson had taken to trying to bite the remaining strands apart.

"Watson-"

The doctor held up a hand to silence him, his mouth preoccupied. A knock at the door sounded and Edward and Jasper popped in, swaying slightly.

"Well, hello, hello!" Edward laughed.

Watson quickly raised his head, his face turning red. Jasper's brows furrowed. He eyed the rope. "What the hell's going on in here?"

"Dearest," Edward whispered, utterly sloshed. "Let's not pry now."

"He tied himself up," Watson explained, groaning slightly.

Holmes stared at him wide-eyed, accusingly, and shook his head quickly. "Don't lie, John."

Watson stared at him. Holmes looked at the others.

"He doesn't like people to know about..." he wriggled his fingers. "what gets him excited." Before Watson could say anything he added, "It's a military thing."

"Ooh..." Edward nodded, his eyes still glossy with booze. He giggled. "Right."

"Fascinating," Jasper said dryly. "Well, we just dropped in to bid you both goodnight."

"Goodnight." Holmes smiled sweetly. "Tell him goodnight, John."

Watson picked up something in his voice and Holmes leaned forward and whispered, "Slap me. Now."

Without even thinking about it, the doctor slapped him. Holmes closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Fine," he said loudly. He turned to the others. "He can't wait, I'm sorry."

"No, no." Edward grinned. "We're leaving. Pleasant dreams, you two."

When they left, Watson exploded. "What the hell was that?"

"You could have added something like, 'take it, bitch'," Holmes shrugged. "Honestly, Doctor, be a little convincing."

" 'Take it...' "Watson shook his head in disbelief. "What in the bloody hell goes on in your head?"

He walked over to his cane and retrieved the blade. He cut the ropes apart, and wordlessly climbed into bed. Holmes rubbed his sore wrists, looking at him. "Are you upset with me?"

Watson shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No," he said quietly.

\------------------------

Watson waited until Holmes was good and asleep to doctor his wrists and ankles. After he did so, he leaned back, cocking his head, admiring his work. The detective snored faintly, scratching his nose in his sleep. Watson closed his eyes, and leaned down, brushing his lips over his. He pulled back, feeling the heat in his face, and leaned down to do it again.

"Watson...?" Holmes groggily muttered through the kiss, opening his eyes slightly.

 

To Be Continued...


	6. Chapter 6

Watson pulled away quickly, turning his head and squeezing the back of his neck with his hand. His breathing was shallow. Holmes sat up slowly.

"Watson?"

"I'm sorry," Watson muttered, moving his hand from his neck to cover his face. "I'm so sorry, Holmes."

Holmes looked around, absent-mindedly scratching something itchy on his forearm. He looked down to see the bandages his friend had applied some time ago. He looked at the back of Watson's head.

"I thought we agreed that we wouldn't keep secrets from each ohter anymore," he said quietly.

Watson didn't look at him, but instead, the ceiling. "Look, I don't know what I was thinking." He removed himself from the bed and paced back and forth, finally stopping, half across the room. "I'm so sorry."

His face was flushed, more humiliation piling on him than it ever had. He leaned one side of his body against the wall, staring at the wardrobe that was slightly ajar. He heard the mattress squeak, and soon felt Holmes place a shoulder on his hand. He still wouldn't look at him. He couldn't look at him.

Holmes rubbed his back, clearing his throat. Watson didn't blame him for the silence. He wouldn't know how to handle such a situation either. Why did every moment have to be so hard? Every moment with the person-the only person who understood him, through and through.

"Watson." His voice was surprisingly soft. Not a trace of fear. "Watson, look at me, please." He tapped his fingers against his chin. "Please."

Watson sullenly turned, his gaze still averted. Holmes leaned forward, kissing the corner of his mouth, slowly moving to cover his lips. Meanwhile, his hands were busy finding the doctor's, threading their fingers together. Watson felt his stomach flip, and he kissed him back, pressing against him, aware that Holmes wanted him the way he was suddenly willing to admit that he wanted Holmes.

They kissed for a long time, their lips gracing each other's mouths, jawlines, necks, hands...it suddenly seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and the world-for the time being-only exisisted in each other's touches. They carried their newfound revelation to the bed, and Watson pushed Holmes away from him, panting slightly.

"I've never..." he began, unsure of how to word it. "With another man..."

"How ironic that you say that in the boarding house nestled in London's secret homosexual commonality," the detective whispered, trying to bring his lips back down to doctor's.

Watson shook his head, still keeping him at bay. "Holmes..." he brushed his fingers over the other man's warm, calloused hand. His brows furrowed slightly. "I did a shoddy job on those bandages."

Holmes lowered his head, chuckling. When he looked back up, he was smiling sweetly. He rolled over, laying beside Watson. "We don't have to do anything."

"Tonight, you mean?" Watson said quietly, nudging his head against his friend's.

"Can I ask you something?" Holmes turned to him.

"Mm?"

"Why me? If you don't mind my asking?" He stared up at the ceiling. "I mean, I understand that you tolerate me, even enjoy my company..." he paused. "But love me?"

"Who says I love you?" Watson pulled his upper body up to lean over and kiss the detective.

"I figured you didn't," Holmes sighed, and then let out a fake 'hmm' sound, looking away.

Watson laughed and slapped him lightly on the arm. He laid back down. "I do love you," he said. "I just didn't know how much until tonight."

They stared at each other, and kissed again. They wouldn't do anymore tonight. The kissing was a big enough jump for the both of them, and they were swimming in bliss already. They listened to each other breathe, Holmes' becoming slow and deep first. Watson turned to him, and drowsily asked, "Holmes?"

"...mm?"

"Do you love me?"

The detective opened his eyes, blinking heavily. He nodded. Watson leaned over and kissed him again. "Goodnight then."

 

\--------------------------

 

Watson sipped his morning tea, eyeing the paper intently. He was so lost in it that there was hardly any room for his cup to reach his lips. Edward, Jasper, and Ethan watched him silently. Holmes entered the kitchen, only half dressed, his hair disheveled, and yawned loudly. Every morning before, he had never left the room without being fully dressed.

"Morning," he yawned. He padded over to Watson and poked the doctor's cheek with his index finger. Watson looked up, and grinned.

"Good morning," he said quietly.

Holmes leaned down and they kissed on the lips. Holmes then sat beside him, and stared into space, his eyes glazed with sleep. He absent-mindedly reached across the table to take a croissant, and chewed it mechanically.

"How was your night?" Ethan asked polietly, bringing some chopped melon to the table.

"Good." Watson smiled, returning to his paper.

"Sherlock?" Ethan eyed the other man.

Holmes raised his eyes, his cheeks filled with pastry he was forgetting to swallow on time, crumbs spread over his lips. Watson rolled his eyes, smiling.

"I asked if you slept well," Ethan said quietly, trying not to laugh.

"Oh." He swallowed. "Yes. Very well, thank you."

"I have such a bloody hangover," Edward groaned. He looked at Jasper. "Why do you always let me drink myself into a stupor like that?"

"Who am I?" Jasper snorted, placing his own throbbing head on the tabletop. "Your mother?"

Edward looked away, scoffing. "Of course not. My mother is prettier."

 

\----------------------

 

" 'I can't be with you, I'm so sorry', " Watson read aloud, marking the first letter of each sentence, scanning his eyes down the page. He looked at the next page. " 'You'll understand when I'm gone. ' "

He looked over at Holmes, who was standing by the window of the office, his eyes filled with intense thought. He muttered something to himself and browse through the papers in his own hands. "It's quite a mystery."

They both looked up when they heard the door unlock and open. Jasper stepped in, and dropped what he was holding. A single red rose. He looked between them.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"Simply working on the case," Holmes assured him, looking back at his papers.

"You won't find any evidence in here," Jasper said, picking the rose back up and setting it down on the desk. Holmes eyed it, and then Jasper.

"Do you have a key?" Watson asked, blatantly making sure Jasper knew he was staring right at it in his hand.

"It's Richard's," the other man said cooly. He moved to stand across from them, folding his arms over his chest.

"It's funny that you should put that there," Holmes said, gesturing towards the Rose. "And not Ethan."

"Shows how much he cares, right?" His smile was icy, but slightly sad. "He was Ethan's lover, but he was my soulmate. I cared about him more than anybody in this world." His voice lowered. "We grew up together, and came out together."

Watson hated to pry, but he couldn't help himself. He asked quietly, "Did you have feelings for him? Romantic ones?"

Jasper shook his head, chuckling slightly. "Everyone has a secret." He wiped at his eyes, blinking back tears stubbornly. "Everybody comforted Ethan, but his death hurt me the most."

Watson and Holmes stood silently. Jasper looked out the window, and then down at the floor. "Please don't tell Ethan that I come here," he pleaded softly.

"We won't," Watson promised.

"Thank you."

 

To Be Continued...


End file.
